Let's Get Naked

I am putting out an EP in the near future. Five songs, right under twenty minutes.

This is ridiculous; why would someone in their fifties put out an album?

I’m not accusing you of saying that, it’s more something I toss back at myself.

Why? Because I have entered the “Ah, fuck it” years. I am getting naked—

No…you don’t need to run off in horror, I am speaking metaphorically (or is it figuratively?).

I do what I am inspired to do…there is the necessary evil that is a straight job, but aside from that—

Naked.

Raw. Just following inspiration.

We should all do this, just strip off and be who we really are—

It would fuck everything up and consequently be glorious.

I was on the barge of lost souls last night, coming off a six day work week. 

The bus was full of the soft glow of phones lighting weary faces. 

One fella on the nod kept dropping his; I watched the clock up front by the driver.

Being a nerd, I try and guess how long it will take between major bus stops—

I’ve got it relatively sorted, can work in variations—

It is a weird habit of mine, I am self aware enough to see this.

I think weird habits are alright as long as you are aware of them but I digress—

When I am geeking out like this I am embracing my true self, I am stripping off, getting naked.

I’m trying to get away from the expectations of what a man in his fifties is supposed to be—

Trying away from just being a demographic, a target for ads and expectations.

You should do the same.

You’re better than this life you find yourself in so let’s all just get naked.

Get away from our fucking phones, zone out over trees and birds and flowers.

When we pass a dog on the street study it’s face: I’ve been doing this for a couple of years and it’s fascinating. If you look hard enough you can tell what frame of mind they’re in.

Dogs are naked, cats too, but it’s a more studied sort of naked than dogs.

They don’t give a fuck about clocks or what Amazon is trying to sell them, they just live.

Clearly they’re smarter than us.

I’m supposed to be promoting the memoir I put out in January.

I’m supposed to be “getting you ready” for the memoir coming out this summer.

Should…maybe if I sold enough books I could drift away from straight jobs—

God, doing marketing and promotion is like closing your gender in the car door.

And this is why I have no one to blame but myself.

In my heart, I’m still out there in the van with no schedule, just drifting like a Post it note down a curb.

Picked up by a breeze, carried off into a spreading tree, turned into part of a bird nest.

Mind if I share something personal?

My five hundred square foot apartment is way too big for me.

The island (the four by six rug I work on) is in a big echoey room.

I’m used to 325 square feet, that was a perfect amount of space, maybe even a big much.

Before that, there was the 40 square feet of Pandette (the minivan I lived out of).

My bedroom is too vast, I toy with the idea of enclosing it in a tent, make it more cozy.

A dark blue one imprinted with stars.

We allow ourselves to be dragged along at too fast a pace.

We accept things harmful to our persons, tolerate the phrase “That’s just the way it is.”

We do what—a generation ago—would have been the work of two or even three people—

And still struggle to keep a roof over our heads.

We march along inside a system where cars have gotten too complex to keep up—

Where the job and everything else requires a smart phone to utilize more and more apps.

Where even normal people are supposed to be “a Brand,” not just on social media but if you’re looking for a job.

I think we all need to just get naked, say fuck it, and live life.

Kick out the cell door of this prison of debt, of this increasingly rigid and dehumanizing “modern life.”

You ready?